


Silken Scarves

by PersonyPepper



Series: Undeads [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29096838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper
Summary: Jaskier knows the continent like the back of his hand, as a traveling bard is wont to do. When people stop dying, he heads northwards in hope that Kaer Morhen is untouched by the plague in its isolation. Of course, he doesn't expect to run into a little Princess in his travels, but she's Geralt's destiny, and it's far too dangerous to leave a kid to the hands the undead...
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Undeads [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2159238
Comments: 56
Kudos: 134





	1. Chapter 1

The world’s dusty. Bloody. Impossibly more so than before, and Jaskier trudges through it one step after another. There’s a single sword on his back, its tip broken; the dagger strapped to his leg is too blunt and his lute, well, she’s long lost. 

The town is eerie in its quiet. Nothing is ever silent anymore, fear buzzing in his ears with his every breath but the town is _quiet_. He’s on his last dregs, no water, no food and hunting hasn’t proved any luck. The berries have run out, and the fruit trees are bare. The beginnings of winter linger in the air. 

He sneaks towards the town. It’s a small settlement in the middle of nowhere, towards the north of the continent. The south is on fire, well on its way to becoming ash. It seems that the north has already burned out. The well-worn path is smooth under his feet, and he doesn’t bother avoiding the splotches and puddles of blood and human viscera for any reason other than to keep his movements quiet. His boots are worn thin, the rest of his once-silken clothes just as ratty. 

Jaskier keeps his broken sword drawn as he sneaks into town; he’s learnt to keep his tread light. The town is a single-roaded thing, thatched wooden houses down one side path and, opposite to it, an empty market. Surprisingly, he only spots one body, rotted and bloody despite the scent of death so strong that it would’ve sent him running a couple months ago. A town so small, Jaskier doubts they’d have had a blacksmith or the like; it’s simply a place to sell wares and a couple wooden establishments. He spots a tavern and a bakery on the outskirts of the market. Everything’s surprisingly pristine, surprisingly normal save for how strongly the place reeks of rotted flesh. 

His poulaines are uncomfortably loud as he walks toward the market. It’s empty, and Jaskier doesn’t allow himself a sigh of relief before he flips his messenger back open to restock jerky, nuts, and crackers at the stand of non perishables. It feels like a trap, laid out in the open and free to take as it is, but Jaskier doubts there’s anyone left alive in this town to set snares in the first place. He sneaks in a single slightly overripe apple into his bag, now pleasantly heavy with food his starving stomach begs him to eat. 

Jaskier flips his bag closed and firmly latches it in place before heading towards the opposite side of town. Winter approaching, he won’t survive this far north without a solid cloak and with a little luck, he hopes to find a replacement to his performance boots closeby. He’s ill-fit for travel, as Geralt had told him long, long ago. It’d taken three decades and the introduction of the end of the world for Jaskier to agree. 

There’s no snarling as he walks down the midst of the street. The things are blind and he winces as pebbles crunch under his feet as he half-crouches and quickens his pace. The sooner he’s away from the establishment, the less likely he is to come across them. He approaches the first house he sees, a rickety old thing barely held together, especially with the absence of anyone to care for it. 

Dust covers every inch of the house, but, praise Melitele, it’s empty. He feels silly as he punches the air in victory but it’s well deserved. It’s the first time he’s been indoors in half a year; a man deserves to celebrate. The wooden floor creaks as he ducks into the far corner of the shed— it’s too pitiful to call a house. His eyes don’t linger on the chalk drawings on the wooden walls and doesn’t imagine the old house having been a home for a child and its family. There’s a cloak over a chest in the corner, fur-lined and next to it, are a set of boots. Everything’s in its place, valuables left behind, and Jaskier doesn’t want to know what that means coupled with the stench of death.

The chest holds clothes, musty but not old and Jaskier quickly changes into them and shucks on the cloak with a blissful sigh. It’s heavy, and likely a liability, but he hasn’t been warm in so long. The boots are just as great a blessing, and he straps on the knifehold to his leather-clad thigh and swings his sword holster back into place. 

Looks good, he thinks, not like a bard but also not like he’s about to freeze his cock off come colder months. He doesn’t hear the floor creak behind him as he smoothes down his new clothes. The tip of a blade pokes the small of his back. 

“Who are you?” Her voice is afraid, that much he can tell, and far too loud and booming. He can hear the beginnings of a groan from outdoors. Perhaps this place hadn’t been as abandoned as he’d first thought. It’s better to placate her than have her repeat her question, dreading the possibility that it might grow louder. 

“Jaskier the Traveling bard,” he whispers, turning his head to the side. The blade presses more incessantly through the thick of his cloak. “And who might you be, little miss?” 

She hesitates. “My name is Fiona,” she mutters finally, blessedly quieter than before. He can hear hissing now, and the uneven footsteps of those undead.

“Well, Fiona, would you kindly stop threatening to kill me? It won’t work out well for either of us considering the things outside.” The girl bites a gasp, and Jaskier thinks there might be hope for them after all as she pulls away. He turns to her, and up looks at him the Princess of former Cintra, now wasteland. _Fuck_. A long, hissing, clicking snarl comes from by the door, far too close. Questions later, he supposes. “Be quiet,” Jaskier mouths, and points to the open window in the kitchen. She looks to the door, paling further at the sight of the creatures before beginning her creep towards the window.

The floor creaks loudly, and not a moment later, the creatures burst in, shrieking and hissing. Jaskier has just enough time to shove her up and out the window with a command for her to run to the forests before one of them descends upon him. Rotting teeth open and hungry to make a meal out of him snap in his face before he shoves it away to fall atop the two behind it. _Shit_. He turns to run out the window, throwing himself out just in time for his foot to escape the grabbing hands of the rotten undead.

Fiona hides behind a tree, across a long stretch of land to the forests; he bounds for it like a witcher to a whorehouse. 


	2. Chapter 2

The bark digs into his skin as he rests his palm flat against the firm wood of winter-cracked trees. _Fuck_. Too fucking close. He keeps his eyes open, for with each blink comes the memory of unhinged jaws snapping too close to his ankle. He’s lucky he’s still got the cloak; he shucks it off himself and around Ciri’s shoulders, her own tattered Cintran blue shawl too bright against the sullen landscape of leafless black-brown trees and foggy white sky.

He stands before the cold can seep into his bones. “Jaskier,” Ciri whispers. Jaskier nods at her. He’s alright.

Geralt’s child of surprise alone in an intensely monster-infested land. And all she’s got is a clueless bard with a broken sword and dull dagger. He can feel a headache coming on. The sun’s beginning to set; he has to figure out what to do next.

“Alright,” he whispers, crouching in front of the Princess. She’s barely waist high, and Jaskier allows his eyes to slip shut in brief prayer to every Goddess that she’d survived for so long. “Alright,” he takes her hand in his and sea-green eyes look down at him. They hold the strength and calm of the the Lioness of Cintra, he smiles. “Do you remember when I played at your birthdays? I didn’t look like this, of course,” he whispers, motioning to his bland clothes, “Do you remember,” and he sings very, very quietly, _“Toss a Coin to your_ —” and he hums the rest of the phrase, barely a tune in his voice. 

Cirilla’s eyes brighten with recognition; she’s warm as he hugs him. “Jaskier, the White Wolf’s bard. The boys I used to play with in the square told me about him. And about you, of course.” Jaskier smiles. The cold begins to seep up through his knees.

“That’s right, Princess. I’m going to take you to him.” He hadn’t made up his mind but now it seems to not even be of question. Ciri’s eyes well with tears as she nods. “Good, alright. I’m taking you north, to Kaer Morhen with me. We’re losing daylight.” He stands, holding a hand out to hers. Their skin is pink with chill and he pulls the hood of the too-long cloak over her head. 

They begin walking, footsteps light. Snow flecks down from the heavens, dotting their path and melting against the frozen soil as they walk. Jaskier’s breath hitches as he hears a twig behind them snap. 

-

They’d gone through the woods; as far away from civilization as humanly fuckin’ _possible_ and of _course_ — they’d wandered in here too. Lambert doesn’t draw his sword at the first one they see, Aiden at his side. They’d slipped back into the shadows between long trunks, planning to go around the fucker. 

Lambert crouches on instinct when he hears footsteps in front of their new path. He hooks his forefingers together; Aiden nods, on higher alert.

There are clicks from behind them. Lambert keeps is eyes trained in the few in front of him and Aiden turns to face the others. There’s no running; hisses grow louder, and the stench of rot thickens. Footsteps from either side, too. They’re surrounded. _Shit—_ Lambert doesn’t care to think about what had given their position away as nearly a dozen stumble into the small clearing, eyes either blinded white or gouged out to leave empty, bleeding sockets. 

They fight, footing silent as the slice swords through air— into chest and through necks. Chaos doesn’t come until their swords meet skin, and the sound of snarling and screeches fill the once-silent space.

His stomach falls as he hears Aiden yelp behind him, and turns to see his lover dodging a bite, silver sword having fallen away and a hand pressed to his stomach. Another one of the undead reach for him, and Lambert cannot think. He moves without realizing he’s doing so, snarling louder than the group of undead. Lambert stabs blindly, posture perfect as he slashes through meat and bone. 

His sword drips as he paces the clearing, searching for any more of the fuckers and _itching_ for the fight. They’d tried to hurt _Aiden_ , and Lambert bites back another snarl at the thought. 

“Lamb,” his lover whispers, just loud enough for witcher ears. He’s on his feet, and Lambert can tell that the bleeding’s stopped. “Stitches tore, nothing else,” he mutters, and Lambert grits his teeth and forces a nod. They’d still tried to hurt him, and Lambet _rages_ at the thought. “I’m okay.” Aiden takes his chin, gently coaxing Lambert into looking up at him. “I’m okay,” he whispers. He presses a kiss to Lambert’s lips, and Lambert sighs into the touch. “You did good,” Aiden mouths against him. “Let’s keep going.” Lambert feels his heart begin to settle. Tears will prickle at his eyes later. For now, Lambert holds his bloody sword in one hand, and takes Aiden’s hand in the other. They continue north. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to read more of this story, you're welcome to request more on my tumblr :) I probably won't write more without the nudge lol.


	3. Chapter 3

Brambles cut at his face as they run; he doesn't know how they'd heard them. He can hear Geralt reprimanding him for his foolishness already. Ciri's hand is firm in his; the screeching grows louder. How the fuck hadn't he heard them-- Jaskier doesn't dare looking behind them to count how many chase. 

Even in their frenzied, fearful run, Jaskier cannot help but appreciate the company by his side. He doesn't know how many months he's gone without hearing a heartbeat, without feeling warm skin. He's not alone; he grips the Princess' hand harder. This won't do. 

The creature's screeching has other undead pouring into the forest space, and each of their running footsteps only gives their location away. Amongst barren trees having shed twigs and dry leaves, Jaskier has to find a place to hide. A place to steady their breath, and calm their hearts. They're going to die otherwise. 

There's no convenient rock formation, and the trees are too feeble to climb. Jaskier feels dread sink deep into his stomach. The creatures aren't slow, but he and Ciri are faster. One last hope. 

He runs, picking up the pace with a grimace. Ciri pants by his side, and Jaskier hates having to put her through this. Smart kid, though; she understands, and begins running faster beside him. Jaskier can see the edge of the forest and the sight of a wheat field beyond that. Between the junction of the trees and the wheat is an opening to the main path. He runs faster. 

He glances over his shoulder. The undead reek, and his gasping breaths do him no favors. At least he's breathing, though; it's more than can be said for most. The creatures are a good bit behind them; if they stopped running now, they wouldn't know where to follow. Jaskier stops running, and signals to Ciri to keep her breath even, quiet. 

The undead hiss and click, stumbling forward without direction. Jaskier hasn't won, but he is winning. They're listening more intently for a sound. Jaskier crouches, Ciri still holding one of his hands, and picks up a pebble with the other. 

Their savior is no larger than the size of Jaskier's palm, dense and weighty. He flings it over his head, and listens to it land behind the creatures. Jaskier waits with a baited breath. Many of the undead turn towards the sound behind them, and many do not. _Shit_. He needs something louder. 

Ciri looks down at him, the Lion Cub true to her name. She nods when he points to the path a little ways away, and he wishes he could tell her to get ready to run. With the determination on her face, it seems she already knows. The rocks are aplenty, small and heavy. He collects them with patience; this has to be perfectly done, or it will not work. 

The sun grows lower. Soon, he will not be able to see what's in front of him; they need to get to somewhere safe. Safer. 

He hurls the rock behind the herd, and listens as it ricotches off a tree loud enough to have the undead spit and click towards it. The second rock lands in crackling dry leaf, and some stumble towards it. Jaskier swallows. Ciri looks at him, fearful and trusting. He has one more, one more chance to get them off their trail. 

The branch is as long as his forearm, solid and worn. He feels it in his hand, and gives it a kiss, for good luck. Jaskier raises it over his head, and throws will all his might. It flies through the sky almost comically slowly, and lands loudly against the frozen forest floor. It's loud enough. 

The group of undead, of which Jaskier is still too fearful to count, run toward the branch and away from him and Ciri. They screech, and call the others toward the sound. Idiots, Jaskier wants to smirk. He doesn't have the time. 

Jaskier and Ciri run towards the dirt path, faster than before. Their brief footsteps are drowned out by the screeching, and they do not stop until they grow quiet. 

They are out of the forest, out of town. Ciri is safe and by his side, her gloved hand clutching his. They have three hours of sunlight left, and Jaskier counts himself lucky as they walk painfully silently down the main path. 

He does not light a fire when they make camp by the roadside, and he does not sleep as he watches over Ciri's form. "Exciting first day, huh?" He mouths, not dating to whisper. She smiles and nods tiredly as she rests against him.

The never-dying fear buzzes especially loudly in his ears. Cold bites at his nose, and Ciri huddles to his chest. 

For now, they are alive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> U guys asked for more so here's more :) ily I'm rlly sorry it's like this but I literally cannot write this without u guys demanding it be written lol idk what happened to my will to write but she won't come out unless u ask sksk Im so sorry

**Author's Note:**

> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://persony-pepper.tumblr.com)
> 
> Let me know what ya thought :)


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